I finished this one off at 4am with an eyegraine and in dire need of sleep.
In case you were wondering, no, the book is not real. It is as fictional as the author. I can however reveal an excerpt from the book but don’t tell the publishers (wink, wink):
‘She was outraged.
There she stood on the threshold of the dining room in what she once belived was her home, her beautiful home, to find Michael, the Daschund making love to her grand piano.
The rage took hold and she screamed. She screamed loudly.
It was like an earthquake.’